What happened between the 64th and 65th floor
by Elle dont tu lis les histoires
Summary: So, trapped in an elevator with Sherlock Holmes. At least when you come to in an abandoned warehouse you know what to expect...  \\ Series of one-shots. Hopefully humorous throughout. Ch. 2 - John doesn't love elevators so much.   H/C/Angst somewhat
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So I'm putting this has complete because I have no immediate plans to add more chapters, but there are SO many things that could happen whilst our dear John and Sherlock are trapped in an elevator. :D This may turn slashy but never explicit... I'm not sure I could take myself seriously writing that kind of stuff. :P**

* * *

><p>It happened between the sixty-fourth and sixty-fifth floor.<p>

John heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Shit."

* * *

><p>So he's stuck in an elevator – a bloody <em>elevator<em> – with Sherlock Holmes. With Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes. He had already – quite stupidly, in hindsight – been drinking his much needed cup of tea in his mind, was already comfortably in his armchair back in the flat, already, in fact, ignoring the smug ramblings of his mad flatmate as he gloated about his latest success.

He should have learned by now, that when you spend your time gallivanting about London with the world's only consulting detective, that making it home in one piece is never, ever a guarantee.

Well then.

Okay, John. I know you're not the best at dealing with recalcitrant technology, but it would be all kinds of _wonderful _if you could restrain yourself from having a row with a defective elevator. Or any kind of elevator, for that matter. And – breathe, John, _breathe –_ this could be worse. Look at that. No murderous cabbies kidnapping your flatmate, no drug lords chasing you halfway cross the city – hell, you should just be thankful that now there is no conceivable way that Mycroft could possibly abduct you and have a nice little chat because, let's face it, you are trapped in a five-by-five-by-seven metal box, suspended hundreds of feet above the ground, shoulder to shoulder with a five-foot filing cabinet on one side, and an arrogant, smug, and manic sociopath on the other.

An arrogant, smug, manic... _hyperventilating_ sociopath?

"Sherlock, are you … afraid of elevators?"

"Of course not, John. Don't be... don't be ridiculous."

"You are, aren't you?" John couldn't resist gloating. "The great Sherlock Holmes, actually afraid of something! But... elevators?"

"John, I've already said it once. I am _not_ afraid of elevators. Clearly."

"Oh, yes, clearly."

Sherlock was wringing his hands. _Do people even _do _that, _John wondered.

Okay, enough gloating. For now. John wasn't particularly afraid of elevators, but that didn't mean he didn't want to be trapped in one for hours on end. But once they got back to Baker Street... Sherlock was never going to live this down.

So.

John forced the doors open. Great. They were completely stuck in between the floors.

It wouldn't be any use pressing the alarm. No one would hear it – it was already past nine, and they knew for a fact that the building was currently empty except for a solitary security guard – a solitary, _drugged_ security guard on the first floor (Let's be real, they totally could have just snuck past him, but where's the fun in that, John? Look, I just spent all afternoon developing this drug, _and_ I already tested it on the neighbor's cat, who woke up fine, as far as I could tell). And why should there be anybody else? The office closed at five and there was nothing in this building worth stealing, unless you were Sherlock Holmes, hot on the case of a murderously malcontent office drone.

He checked his phone. No signal. Of course.

"Hey, Sherlock... let me see your phone."

There was no response. John looked up from his mobile and saw that his flatmate was practically welded to the nauseatingly green filing cabinet that had gotten them into this situation in the first place, his mouth a thin line, slightly panicked eyes boring a hole in the elevator door. John sighed and forced his hand into the detective's jacket pocket, his hand scraping across the scratched metal surface of the filing cabinet.

Ha, one bar.

So, life with Sherlock Holmes was _dramatic_, to say the least. John could no longer count on one hand the number of times he had come to in an abandoned warehouse, mouth taped shut and tied to a chair. He had a contest going with Sherlock to see who was shot at more – it got kind of tricky sometimes ("Yes, I know we were standing right next to each other, but he was clearly shooting at me, John"), but however you added up the numbers, the total was well into the hundreds. Quite frankly, he wouldn't have been in the least surprised if this whole situation had ended up with him and Sherlock being rescued from this bloody elevator after weeks of being trapped, gasping on the floor on the verge of death and having possibly exchanged confessions of undying love as they consumed one another's limbs to stay alive.

Not this time, universe.

He hit the number three and then send, then deftly pressed the Blackberry to his ear and gave the world's only consulting detective the once over, as it were. Breathing slowed some, not in shock. Still attached to the filing cabinet.

Ah well, could be worse. He could be attached to _John. _

Lestrade answered on the third ring.

"Sherlock?"

"John, actually. Had no signal and Sherlock's tied up at the moment. I was wondering if you could do us a huge favor..."

"John, no. I keep telling him. There is no way in _hell_ I'm going to let you two into my flat to do your so-called goddamned _experiments—"_

"No, no, wait, _what_? Experiments? No, Geoff, it's not – Sherlock and I are in — your flat? No, we're trapped. In an elevator. Lestrade. We're trapped in an elevator. I need you to come and get us. There's no one to hear the alarm and I didn't want to call the fire department because we have some... well, we have some, well, some rather _sensitive _equipment but if you were to come and get us we could quickly, – very quickly, in fact – get it logged properly as evidence, which was, clearly, what we were going to do once we got out of the building.

There was silence on the other end. The only sound John heard was the that of Sherlock possibly slicing himself in half as he pressed his lanky form deeper into the edge of the filing cabinet. Why couldn't their maniacal murderer have stored all his files on his computer, like a normal human being?

And still there was no response. John decided to press on. "We might need a pretty big car, because this, well, this equipment is rather big and – wait, you _keep on telling him? _No, I don't want to hear it, actually –"

There was a rush of static through the speaker as the Detective Inspector let out a sigh."John, you're babbling. I'll have a car over there soon, shouldn't be more than an hour. What's the address?"

* * *

><p>20 minutes. 20 goddamn minutes. John was indescribably glad that they were not, in fact, in any danger of wasting away in this elevator because after 20 minutes he was completely ready to kill himself. Killing Sherlock would have also been an option, but John quite frankly doubted that even death could silence a sulky, bored, and <em>frightened <em>Sherlock Holmes.

"John."

"John."

"John."

"John."

"Sherlock."

Silence.

"John."

"John."

"_John."_

"_What is it now, Sherlock!"_

"John. In my pocket, there is a knife."

"Really? Would you mind handing it over so I can kill myself?"

"No. John. _John.. _Listen. This is important. I can go for long periods of time without food or rest, but it has been _three _hours since you have last eaten."

"Sherlock, I do eat more than you, but I am perfectly capable—"

"No, John, listen to me," he said tremulously. "You need to keep up your strength. I need you to get my knife, and slit my wrist. You can drink my blood—it may keep you alive long enough for Lestrade to come and rescue us. I can't afford to lose you, John."

John gaped.

Sherlock apparently took the doctor's confused silence as acceptence of his terms, as he relinquished his grip on the filing cabinet, slid to the floor, and held his arm out to John. His eyes fluttered shut. "I trust you."

Slightly touched, but mostly just concerned, John fell from his crouch onto his knees, and crawled over to the detective. He slowly reached into the other man's jacket pocket and pulled the knife out. He felt Sherlock's arm tense next to him.

Yes, life with Sherlock Holmes certainly was dramatic. Even without the crime syndacates kidnapping him right and left and people having bombs strapped to their chests. Just Sherlock was enough.

"Sherlock." John tried to speak gently, but his patience had already been worn thin. "Listen to me. We are in absolutely _no _danger of dying here. Get. A. Grip. Now I'm taking this knife. I'll give it back to you when we get out of here."

He put the knife in his own pocket and scooted back to the other side of the elevator and sat against the side, stretching his legs out in front of him. Sherlock slowly curled in his arm and leaned his head against the side of the elevator.

* * *

><p>30 minutes.<p>

Sherlock's eyes flew open. "John."

John closed his eyes. "Sherlock."

"John, I need your jumper."

"No, Sherlock._"_

"No, John. You're right. The time for despair is past. We _will _make it out of here alive. With your jumper and my coat, and this hydrochloric acid I have in my pocket, I can make a device that will safely –"

"You're right, Sherlock. We are going to make it out of here alive because _Lestrade is on his way and he will bloody be here in half an hour and I think you should probably just take a bloody nap. _I will keep my jumper, thank you very much, and I forbid you to even try to get out of this carriage. And while you're at it, why don't you let me look after that HCl for you."

* * *

><p>40 minutes.<p>

The last thing John saw as his eyes drifted shut the world's only consulting detective giving him a death glare (John had confiscated not only the knife and the hydrochloric acid, but also three tubes of toothpaste that had been filled with extra-hot curry powder and a pair of forceps. "I might as well carry on with my experiment as long as we're just stuck here, John."). It had been a very long day, filled with far too much running and jumping off of buildings and, you know, all those things one gets up to when one shares a flat with Sherlock Holmes. Okay, no, so it was perfect, really it was. John loved the high-speed chases through London, loved the adrenaline pumping through his veins, loved being shot at, to be perfectly honest, as long as nobody (besides the, you know, people_ they_ were shooting at) actually got hurt.

But in the end, he could never avoid … _crash._ Might as well put this 20 minutes of enforced confinement to good use.

Apparently Sherlock had the same thought.

John woke suddenly. In the same amount of time it might, for example, take the world's only consulting detective to go from being bored to dangerously bored, these thoughts went through his head:

_One: _SHERLOCK IS GONE.

_Two: _Before he left, Sherlock got me a blanket.

_Three: _Where did Sherlock _go?_

_Four: _Where did Sherlock find a blanket?

_Five: _Sherlock _is the blanket._

_Six: Sherlock _is the blanket.

_Seven: Get. Sherlock. Off. Now._

John tried to move, but it was no use. The lanky detective's arms were thrown round John's neck, and his head rested on John's chest. His long legs were tangled up with John's, effectively pinning him to the ground. Not to mention the fact that when John tried to move, Sherlock just tightened his grip on the doctor. Like a bloody giant squid.

"Sherlock! Get off me!"

"No, John." Sherlock's voice was muffled against John's jumper

"No, I'm serious, Sherlock. You know, this seems like the perfect time to have that talk I've been meaning to have with you – the one about _boundaries. _You know, and how to have them."

He struggled some more.

"_Please, _John."

John froze. He didn't think he had ever – hadn't thought he _would_ ever hear those words come out of Sherlock's mouth. Wasn't, in fact, sure that he actually had heard it now.

Well then, if it meant_ this _much to him... I mean what else was there to do in this elevator? Sherlock didn't get enough sleep as it was and if this would help...

Sherlock noted the cessation of the struggles and knew that he had won. He didn't say anything else, just held on for all he was worth.

Well.

John turned his head and rested his chin in Sherlock's curls. He was here to stay, regardless. No use straining his neck, right?

* * *

><p>This was <em>not <em>what he expected to find when the elevator door opened.

It had been an easy enough matter to fix the elevator. There had simply been a power outage in the building, and all they'd had to do was reboot the system in the control room. Bam.

Lestrade and the bored copper he had grabbed back at the Yard waited in the lobby, a black dolly up against the wall.

What he _had _expected was for Sherlock to come bounding out of the elevator, complaining about how bored he was and just generally making a nuisance of himself as Lestrade and the long-suffering John Watson tried to get the _sensitive equipment _the brilliant duo had lifted from the sixty-eighth floor onto the dolly and into the truck.

Or, you know, maybe Sherlock would have leapt out of the carriage and dashed out into the night, off to confront some criminal or other as Lestrade and the long-suffering John Watson tried to get the _sensitive equipment _that the brilliant duo had lifted from the sixty-eighth floor onto the dolly and into the truck... provided Sherlock hadn't just stolen the truck to get where he was going.

What he definitely _had not _expected was for the long-suffering doctor and his sociopathic flatmate to be sitting on the floor of the elevator, sleeping. And not just sleeping. Sherlock was practically laying on top of John, whose face was buried in the detective's black curls, his arms wrapped around his slim body. Sherlock's coat covered their legs and the slightly decrepit, probably-made-in-the-seventies-going-on-the-disgusting-shade-of-green filing cabinet was looming over them both with a distinct air of disdain. _Bloody homophobic thing_.

Lestrade reached in and punched the "close door" button, and quickly withdrew his arm. Once it had closed, he banged on the metal door, and shouted, rather loudly, "Come on over here Johnson, and bring the dolly with you!" He leaned his head up against door and heard vague scrambling going on inside. He gave them a moment to get up and then pressed the button outside the elevator. The door slid open.

Sherlock immediately came striding out, black coat billowing around his legs.

"Completely incompetent. Took your time, did you Lestrade?"

"Good to see you too, Sherlock. Do you need any help, John? We brought a dolly for you."

"That would be fantastic, Geoff. Thanks for coming to get us."

"Don't mention it. Now let's get back to the yard and get this evidence logged."

"No, no, absolutley not, this is coming back to Baker Street with us," snapped Sherlock. Do you want me to catch this murderer or not?"

So they bickered and loaded up the truck and headed off to wherever they finally decided to go and if Lestrade saw John and Sherlock standing a little bit closer to each other than usual, or Sherlock maybe leaning his head on top of John's a little bit on the drive home, he certainly didn't say anything.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: You guys are amazing... I was NOT expecting this kind of reaction, especially for my first fanfic EVAR! So feel happy, because your response has inspired me to write MOAR! :D **

**A couple of "warnings" : You have to have read the first chapter before you read this (although I'm assuming that's what has happened) as I completely made it the same basic scenario (that filing cabinet has almost become it's own character in my mind... didn't know what I would do without it). The second is that this story isn't as funny. My sister was like... okay well that was good or whatever but now I want TEH ANGST... I tried to make it have a funny tone most of the time, but there are some angsty parts. Don't like, blame her. :P **

**Also, I took lines here and there and even a whole paragraph from the other chapter. This was on purpose, so don't freak out. :P **

**PS. I am American obviously, and saying bloody all the time is about the extent of my British slang knowledge... corrections/suggestions are always welcome. :)**

It happened between the sixty-fourth and sixty-fifth floor.

John heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Shit."

* * *

><p>Shit, shit, shit, shit, <em>shit.<em>

Of course. He couldn't have bloody fallen off a wall or something. No. Of course he had to get stuck in a goddamned elevator, trapped in a five-by-fucking-five-by-seven metal box, suspended hundreds of feet above the ground, shoulder to shoulder with a five-foot filing cabinet on one side, and an arrogant, smug, and manic sociopath on the other.

_Shit._

_Okay. Focus, John._

Old memories flashed across his mind, fighting to be acknowledged. John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing them away. _You're not there anymore. _

_Focus._

"John." John lifted his hands from his face and lowered them to his sides, careful not to clench his fists. Sherlock would notice. Obviously.

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Are you... you seem a little..."

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Just have a bit of a headache."

"Ah, well then." Sherlock leaned nonchalantly against the hideous green filing cabinet as he pulled out his Blackberry.

_Bastard. _The lanky detective was so at ease, he might have been nestled into the curve of a grand piano, crooning a ballad.

"Why don't you grab a file then, and start reading. I'll get Lestrade to come and get us out of here. Shouldn't be a problem... obviously the power has just gone out – there don't seem to have been any mechanical problems."

"You have a signal in here?"

"Obviously." Sherlock pouted a little, presumably at John's idiocy, and began rapidly pressing buttons on his phone.

"Wait, are you texting him?"

The detective didn't lift his eyes. "Of course, John. You know I hate calling people."

"Well, yes, but... isn't this kind of urgent?" John hated the panic that had crept into his voice. He cleared his throat, pulled open the drawer closest to him, and pulled out a file folder at random, studiously avoiding Sherlock's face.

Sherlock raised his eyes from the screen in front of him and flashed his flatmate a look. His gaze never left John's face as he hit the number three speed dial on his phone.

"Lestrade – yes, of course it's Sherlock, who else would it be? Listen, I need your help."

John couldn't hear the DI's words, but heard the snort of laughter from where he was standing.

"Yes, the great consulting detective needs your help, ha bloody ha. And no— _no._" Sherlock lowered his voice. "I will discuss _that _with you later. Not while J—not while... well, this is not an ideal time. _Listen. _I need you to come get us...

* * *

><p>One hour.<p>

Slightly less time than it takes to watch one episode of the Star Trek: The Next Generation on DVD back to back with that How I Met Your Mother that Sherlock had randomly recorded last week ("John, apparently this Barney character is a high-functioning sociopath—more research is clearly needed on the subject")

One hour.

The time it takes to bake a cake from scratch if you're really good at measuring, or from a mix if you're really, _really_ bad at it.

One hour.

The perfect amount of time for a nap after you've returned from your latest kidnapping experience at the hands of a foreign drug cartel before you sit down with a nice cuppa and later, maybe some Thai takeout.

One hour.

The time, apparently, it takes for Lestrade to grab one bored copper from the Yard and drive over to the office building where John and Sherlock are currently _trapped in a fucking metal box _suspended several hundred feet in the air.

One hour.

_Fucking eternity._

* * *

><p>What he <em>did not <em>do was slide clumsily to the floor. He, very deliberately, _sat _himself down on the floor and primly opened up the filing folder, examining the contents as closely as one possibly can with his eyes closed. He did _not _sit on the floor so that the ceiling of the elevator would seem farther away, and he _definitely _did not do it because he thought his legs might give out at any moment. He was simply exhausted from all the running after taxi cabs and jumping off of buildings that was such a routine part of life when you live with the world's only consulting detective, and when said detective asked him why on earth he had slid onto the floor like that, John, this is what John told him.

"I see," was his only reply.

hr

And he did see. It was his job.

When John slid to the floor (and he definitely had slid), Sherlock immediately noticed four things:

_One:_ When he even bothers to try to keep his eyes open, John's pupils are dilated wide, so that Sherlock can barely see the irises.

_Two:_ There is a sheen of sweat covering John's forehead. Too much for the limited physical activity the two had done in the last hour. Too much to be explained by the actually quite cool temperature of the elevator carriage.

_Three:_ John's breathing is slow and steady. No hyperventilation, then. But something is off, the breaths seem a little _too _steady... Sherlock starts to count, carefully studying a file all the while. _Inhale: One... Two... Three... Four... Exhale: One... Two...Three...Four... _

Conclusion: John is not hyperventilating because he is _trying desperately to not start hyperventilating._

_Four:_ John is holding the file in his hands _very _tightly, as if to keep them from shaking, _but it is not working._

These four facts coupled with the knowledge that: a) These symptoms had begun only after they entered the elevator (and never, ever before) and b) John was trying to hide them from Sherlock led to only one conclusion.

_Claustrophobia._

And, judging from his physical reaction, John was probably about to have a panic attack. While trapped in an elevator. With only a slightly homophobic filing cabinet and a sociopathic detective to help him through the ordeal.

If he didn't know any better, Sherlock would have thought he was actually feeling sorry for John right about now.

* * *

><p>First thing. Am I alive?<p>

Yes. Too much pain for this to be death. Next.

Smell: Burnt flesh. Melted plastic. Gasoline. Next.

Taste: Blood. Dirt. Next.

Hear: _Noise. _Shells. John. Screaming. English? No, Farsi. Next.

Don't hear: Breathing, moaning in the passenger seat. Next.

Touch: Back against seat. Chest against dash. Cold hand on shoulder. Next.

See: Twisted metal. Thighs, soaked with blood. Next.

Pain: Seatbelt cutting across neck. Arm crushed against door. Intolerable heat. Legs pinned. Next.

Feel: Trapped. _Helpless. _Stop.

Except it's more like

I am going to die. Dead, already dead _John, _listen. I can't move, can't breathe, _trapped_ can't move, can't The noise. I can't hear, can't think I will be baked alive. Can't _breathe. _Something is burning and it is me it is my skin I can feel it I can smell it. Pressed, _squeezed _Legs are sliced off can't move cold burning my shoulder the noise crashing _helpless _

_Shoulder._ _John, listen. _

_trapped _heart pounding hard too hard too hard to live _John, breathe with me _no air too much air. I will die here, burning, burningCold shoulder, _helpless_

Shoulder. _John, _listen.

Cold, not hot. _Listen, John. Breathe with me. _

_Cold, not hot. _Shoulder. Breathe.

Shoulder. Cold, not hot. Sherlock. Breathe.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was <em>pretty damn relieved <em>when John started to breathe with him, started to focus his eyes on him, grabbed ahold of the cold hand that was gripping his shoulder (obviously his good shoulder, John, did you think I would just forget something like that?), slightly less relieved when he _clung _to it. But he didn't shake him off.

When it seemed that John's breathing and pulse had more or less returned to normal, Sherlock prised John's fingers off his wrist and thumped himself inelegantly onto the floor next to his friend. Hesitated for just a moment before he entwined John's shaking fingers with his own long cold ones. Didn't say a word as John lay his head on his shoulder, didn't move a muscle when John's short hair tickled his neck. Didn't relax his grip even when the even breaths skittering across his chest told Sherlock that John was asleep.

The homophobic filing cabinet decided it would cut them some slack this time.

* * *

><p>This was <em>not <em>what he had expected to happen when the elevator door opened.

It had been an easy enough matter to fix the elevator. There had simply been a power outage in the building, and all they'd had to do was reboot the system in the control room. Bam.

Lestrade and the bored copper he had grabbed back at the Yard waited in the lobby, a black dolly up against the wall.

What he _had _expected was for Sherlock to come bounding out of the elevator, complaining about how bored he was and just generally making a nuisance of himself as Lestrade and the long-suffering John Watson tried to get the _sensitive equipment _the brilliant duo had lifted from the sixty-eighth floor onto the dolly and into the van.

Or, you know, maybe Sherlock would have leapt out of the carriage and dashed out into the night, off to confront some criminal or other as Lestrade and the long-suffering John Watson tried to get the _sensitive equipment _that the brilliant duo had lifted from the sixty-eighth floor onto the dolly and into the van... provided Sherlock hadn't just stolen the van to get where he was going.

What he definitely, absolutely bloody well _had not in one million years _expected was for the world's only consulting detective to fling himself out of the elevator and around the DI's neck, tears sliding silently down his face. He didn't see John stumble out of the elevator, didn't notice him clinging to the dolly.

"Geoff," he shuddered, face pressed against the policeman's shoulder. "What took you so long?"

The spare copper gaped. Lestrade managed to mumble, "Traffic?" His eyes slid over to John, who was leaning against the wall, arm draped over the handle of the dolly. The doctor shrugged.

Sherlock flicked his gaze over toward his flatmate, saw him leaning calmly against the wall. He relinquished his hold on the Detective Inspector and dramatically wiped at his eyes. A memory niggled at the back of Lestrade's brain. _Back when... The... bomber? Ian Monkford's car... his wife... _

"Right then. I will meet you all at the van... I assume you took the Toyota." Three pairs of eyes watched him stalk out the revolving door.

John clapped his hands together. The other two men turned to look at him. "Okay then," said John, his voice a little more hoarse than normal, Lestrade thought. "Let's get this thing loaded up, shall we?"

**So yeah. Not as funny. And the end is weird. Hopefully it was still good tho... I've been looking at it too long to even know anymore. :\**


End file.
